Fire and Blood
by Tremaile
Summary: Asmodean rides with Perrin & co. to rescue Rand, on a day of fire and blood at Dumai's Wells. (Asmodean Lives AU) Warning for blood & gore, but nothing worse than what you've seen in the actual books.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This one will have two chapters, because I wanted to end the first part where it ends but wanted to include the aftermath, also. Again, as always, dedicated to Pettymotives on Tumblr. Check out her Asmodean art (links in my profile)!

**ALSO:** This should be obvious to anyone who's read Dumai's Wells in the books (which is hopefully all of you because otherwise I don't know what you're doing here), but just to avoid any wankery: **parts of the dialogue are taken straight from the book**. Obvious lines. For obvious reasons.

* * *

The sword felt heavy in Asmodean's hand. He never had properly learnt how to fight with a sword — he shared Taim's dislike of the weapon, although probably for somewhat different reasons, and damn, did he wish Taim was there right now. Whatever else the man was — little more than a child playing with deadly powers he had barely begun to comprehend — whatever else he was, there was no denying that he and a few dozen of those so-called Guardians of his would have been supremely useful in hauling al'Thor's arse out of the death trap they'd witnessed on the other side of the ridge. But they didn't have Taim, they didn't have the Asha'man. What they had was a couple of thousand Aiel, a few hundred Cairhienin and Mayeners, a handful of Two Rivers archers and nine Aes Sedai. Against the White Tower delegation it might have been enough — it should have been enough — but against the forty thousand Shaido currently laying siege to said Tower delegation's camp? Against their channellers — according to Kiruna Nachiman, there could be up to three hundred Wise Ones channelling down there — against all of that? They didn't stand a chance.

Yet there he was, weighing the useless weapon in his hand, contemplating riding into the frey with Perrin Aybara. _Ta'veren_, he kept telling himself. Anything was possible with two of those around — Aybara, and al'Thor himself, where ever he was being held in that camp. Asmodean didn't believe in miracles, not really, but if such things happened, _if_ miracles happened, then surely this would be a good time for one?

"You're going to ride with us, bard?" Dobraine Taborwin's voice interrupted his thoughts. The Cairhienin looked grim, determined, and utterly convinced that he was not going to see the sun rise tomorrow. Asmodean nodded, not trusting his voice. The look on Lord Dobraine's face took on a distinct '_why am I even surprised?'_ quality. "Well then. I don't suppose you know how to use that sword of yours?"

Asmodean had no chance to reply because then Aybara marched up to them. "You'd be safer staying with the Wise Ones and the Aes Sedai," the young lord said.

Not if they realised he was channelling. Not that Aybara would know about that little detail. Asmodean shook his head. "If this goes bad it's not going to be much safer."

The yellow-eyed man nodded slowly. "You probably have a point there." He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but decided against it, adding simply, "Stay close to me and Loial. Maybe we can…" He trailed off with a helpless gesture; protecting anyone but yourself was going to be an achievement down there. _Ta'veren._ It had to count for something.

Lord Dobraine mounted up as a squire brought his horse. "Are you sure you will not ride, Lord Aybara?" the Cairhienin asked; the idea of a lord going into battle on foot seemed strange to him. Aybara declined, explaining that his axe was not that useful from horseback.

Asmodean mounted up as well and positioned himself near Loial. The ogier's ears twitched nervously as he watched people taking their positions, readying their weapons. He glanced at Asmodean, made as if to say something, but changed his mind and remained silent. Asmodean was glad. He didn't mind the ogier — most of the time — but he was very much not in the mood. It was difficult to try to focus on having a conversation when one was planning to ride into near-certain death.

_Ta'veren._

_Ta'veren._

_Ta'veren._

Only when Lord Dobraine gave him a curious look did he realise that he was muttering the word repeatedly under his breath like a prayer. He gave the Cairhiening a blank stare until the man looked away. Around them the Aiel were veiling themselves, looking eager to pit their spears against those of the Shaido. Everything seemed to be ready — or as ready as they were going to be. Asmodean, drawing as deeply from the True Source as the accursed shield allowed — it was so little, a mere trickle compared to what he'd used to have at his disposal! — and wove barriers of Air around himself. Nobody would have the time to pay enough attention to him to notice that he was deflecting arrows and glancing blows from spears. Or so he hoped. He was… reasonably sure, and that had to be good enough right now.

They climbed to the crest of the hill again; the view of the battle had changed very little. The Shaido were still attacking the Tower delegation with spears and the Power. Many of the wagons were burning — more than before? Asmodean couldn't tell. It looked like it. He was amazed that the Aes Sedai were still holding against the masses of Aiel throwing themselves at them. He wondered if there was any chance that they would hold until they could reach them. If there was any chance of ever reaching that ring of wagons in the first place.

No. There had to be. He couldn't see how, but… He couldn't see how!

And then there was no more time to thing about any of that. Lord Dobraine raised his sword and his voice. "The Lord Dragon, Taborwin and victory!" he shouted, and five hundred voices echoed his words. And then the five hundred Cairhienin cavalry, one ogier, one Wolfbrother, one former tinker and one Forsaken were charging down the slope at a breakneck pace, straight into the masses of the Shaido.

Out of nowhere, wolves, hundreds of them, fell upon the Shaido. Arrows rained down as the Two Rivers men set to their task. The Shaido finally realised that they were being attacked from behind and turned to fight the wolves, only to be hit with the hammer of the Cairhienin lancers, with the Maidens and the _siswai'aman_ to either side.

Asmodean was following close behind Lord Dobraine when a Shaido spear took his horse down. Somehow he managed to not end up crushed under the animal. Somehow he managed to hold on to his sword — the part of his mind that wasn't screaming in panic noted how absurdly useless effort that was — and somehow he managed to keep his shields intact and not get skewered on a spear. He was hauled to his feet by Loial before the ogier went on to fend off the horde of Aiel that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. Asmodean raised his sword, slashing wildly at the Aiel that made it past Loial and his ogier-sized battle axe. He undoubtedly did more damage with the little Power he could afford to use for attacking without having his protective shields dissolve, but the sword served to distract the Aiel before him if nothing else.

There was no time for fear. There was no time to _think_. There was only the next enemy before him, a veiled face that might belong to either man or woman, the startled disbelief in the blue or grey or green eyes as their spears reflected off what must seem like thin air, the spurt of blood as Asmodean cut their throats with a thin weave of Air… And then, another body at his feet. But it was tiring, straining against the shield to draw as much of the Power as he could — barely enough — and it soon took all his considerable skill to maintain his defences as well as keep killing his way through the Shaido.

Through the fog of exhaustion he suddenly realised that Loial was no longer at his side. After a frantic moment he could spot the tall ogier further ahead — presumably with Aybara, although Asmodean could only see the ogier. Quick assessment of the situation — even as he parried a blow with his sword, more thanks to luck than intent — told him that there was no way he could catch up with them unless they came back for him. Fat chance of that, hell bent as they were to reach al'Thor.

Not that Asmodean could blame them.

He could, however, curse them for leaving him behind.

Or rather could have, had he had time to spare for such thoughts, because then everything happened at once. A spear came at him with enough force that it shattered the shields of Air. Although the impact with the shield slowed and diverted the spear enough that the hit wasn't fatal, it left Asmodean defenceless and rendered his left arm useless. Through a red haze of pain he saw two more spears raised, poised to strike, and knew that he wasn't going to be able to deflect them both.

The gateway that opened dispatched one of the threatening spears by slicing the Shaido wielding it neatly in half. The other spear thrust forward — and took the man who had been unfortunate enough to be the first one through the gateway in the back. The man staggered, eyes wide with shock, and collapsed against Asmodean, who dropped his sword and caught the man by the shoulders. Young, barely twenty if even that much, the man tried to speak but instead coughed up a stream of blood. Panic filled the wide, blue eyes as the youth realised that he couldn't breathe for the blood filling his lungs. He grasped frantically at Asmodean's coat, wordlessly begging for him to do something, but there was nothing he could do; even if he had been able to channel more than a trickle, a spear through the lung required rather more skill in Healing than he had.

Asmodean sank to his knees, lowering the dying youth to the ground. Half score more men in black coats had come through the gateway straight after the unfortunate individual and formed a protective circle around their fallen companion and Asmodean. Around them, Aiel died in their scores. Blood and worse things rained down. Asmodean realised with a start that he couldn't afford to channel anymore, not with the Asha'man present. Thankfully he had had the presence of mind to release _saidin_, even with a man dying in his arms.

One of the men, a short, pale Dedicated no older than the one who had fallen to the spear, glanced over his shoulder at Asmodean. "Is he alive?" he shouted over the sounds of the battle. Asmodean shook his head tiredly. He could see the raw pain on the boy's face before he turned his full attention to the battle again. Asmodean looked down at the dead Asha'man — Dedicated, actually, judging by the silver sword pin on his collar — whose dead eyes were staring sightlessly up to the sky. A child. Not even in the War of Power had children been trained to do… this.

"Get up! We need to move!" a voice commanded. Asmodean looked up to find the short man who had addressed him earlier gesturing impatiently at his companions although the words were clearly aimed at Asmodean. "To the wagons. The Lord Dragon will be there, and the M'Hael. Marle, take point. Kajima, Hopwil, rear. Don't bloody get skewered!"

"What about Dar—?" the one called Hopwil began, but cut off as the leader shot him a warning glare.

"You just focus on keeping the rest of us alive, dammit!" The leader turned back to Asmodean, who quickly scrambled to his feet and tried — in vain — to brush the dirt off his trousers. "I don't know what you're doing here or where the hell you came from, but make yourself useful and help me with—" He cut off with an abrupt shake of his head, frowning down at the corpse of his comrade. "I can't leave him here. Not like this." The last part was quiet enough that Asmodean was sure the others couldn't hear nor were they meant to. He wasn't entirely sure he was, either.

"Of course," he said, and together they picked up the dead Dedicated. The battle around them didn't seem to have changed at all; people were dying, to Aiel spears and to arrows and to bolts of Fire and blades of Air. In the midst of the chaos, the small party began making their slow, messy way towards the ring of wagons, the plain-faced blond man called Marle clearing a path for them with brutal efficiency.

Asmodean had to focus on not tripping over the corpses on their path, but he kept telling himself it was easier than having to dodge spears wielded by living Shaido. A lot easier. And safer. Even though all he really wanted was to be somewhere else, almost anywhere, with solid walls around him to keep out the screams of the dying. And the spears. Especially the spears. There was a reason he had always left the crazy battlefield stunts to Demandred and Sammael and the rest of them. He was not cut out for this, nor did he want to be. He wanted to be somewhere quiet and clean, with a bottle of good wine. Or make that two or three. And he wanted to sleep. If he made it out of this alive he was never going to leave his bed again. Never getting involved again. Never, ever, ever going into battle again. Never carrying a dead body across a battlefield again, with a boy who was trying so hard not to cry, to pretend he wasn't crying, because he was the leader of a squad of trained killers, a living weapon and weapons don't mourn when the battle is on.

"What's your name?" Asmodean asked, raising his voice to carry over the sounds of the battle. Such a ridiculous question to be asking in that moment, but the whole situation was ridiculous — a nice, bland understatement — and it was either that or thinking about what he was stepping on as he walked in rather more detail than he wanted to.

The boy glanced at him — and casually decapitated a Shaido warrior who was getting a bit too close for comfort with a blade of Air. The Aiel's body crumpled at the feet of the one behind him, and that one was burned to cinders moments later. "Arawin," the boy replied. "Brys Arawin." He blinked angrily but seemed to regain his composure to some extent. He didn't pause in his channelling, in killing. "And I know who you are, bard. I've seen you visiting the Black Tower with the Lord Dragon."

"Brilliant," Asmodean said. "I have a name too, you know. Jasin Natael."

"A pleasure, Master Natael." There was a hint of wry humour in Arawin's voice, now, and Asmodean knew he was going to be fine. At least for long enough. And what happened after the battle was a worry for later.

By the time they reached the ring of wagons, the fighting inside was mostly over. Asmodean scanned the campsite frantically for any sign of al'Thor. He had to be alive! "I must go find the Lord Dragon," he said distractedly as they lowered the dead boy to the ground by one of the wagons. "You will excuse me, Dedicated Arawin…" He didn't wait for a reply.

He made his way through the camp, while around him captured Shaido warriors were being stripped of their weapons — and clothes? how bizarre — and young men in green uniforms were gathered under guard by the Cairhienin and Mayeners. Nearly a dozen Aes Sedai were guarded and shielded by an equal number of men in black coats. More Asha'man swiftly raised barriers of Air around the campsite, blocking the masses of Shaido outside. Despite the killing that had already taken place, their numbers didn't seem diminished in the least. Asmodean shuddered; he had a sinking feeling that the worst wasn't over yet.

He finally found al'Thor accompanied by Taim and the girl Min, and Aybara and Loial. The ogier seemed glad and more than a little surprised to see him, but nobody else paid him any mind; al'Thor seemed to be arguing with Taim over something. And wasn't that a surprise, Asmodean thought tiredly. He staggered over the uneven ground towards the small group; Taim, noticing him, stopped mid sentence and stared, black eyes widening in surprise.

"You," the Saldaean said incredulously. "_You_ were fighting?"

Asmodean shrugged — and winced as his wounded arm took the motion as a signal to notch up the pain. "I lost my sword," he said faintly.

"Your sword," Taim repeated. "You were fighting. With a sword."

"Taim!" al'Thor snapped. He looked rather worse for wear, his shirt in bloodied tatters and something wild and dangerous lurked in the depths of his eyes, barely constrained. His voice, although slightly hoarse, was harder than stone. "I thought I gave you an order."

"My Lord Dragon…" Taim began stiffly, but al'Thor didn't let him finish.

"I told you to make weapons, Taim. Show me just how deadly they are. Disperse the Shaido. Break them."

A moment of silence so thick Asmodean was almost surprised the air didn't turn solid with it. Then Taim spoke again, his voice perfectly respectful, utterly colourless. "As you command."

But al'Thor wasn't done yet. "Put my standard up where they can see it," he ordered.

Taim gave a minuscule bow, face set in an impassive mask, before he turned to the Asha'man awaiting orders. Taim had fought battles with the One Power before, Asmodean realised. The man's posture, shoulders squared and head held high, hands clasped behind his back, radiated command and control, but there was a tension to his movements, a sharp edge to his voice that told Asmodean that he knew exactly how ugly this was going to get.

And it was going to get _ugly_.

"Grady, raise the Banner of Light!" Taim's voice boomed, amplified with the Power to carry over the entire camp. One of the Dedicated picked up the crimson banner deftly with flows of Air and raised it high above the centre of the dome.

"Asha'man, form line of battle!" Taim commanded. The men in black coats — all of them except for Grady and the ones guarding the Aes Sedai — took their places between the barrier and the people within the dome in such swift and orderly fashion that it had to be trained. Asmodean spotted some of the men who had inadvertently rescued him earlier; Arawin and the ones he had called Hopwil and Kajima.

Taim continued issuing commands. "Asha'man, raise the barricade two spans!" Like a well-oiled clockwork machine, the Asha'man obeyed. The barricade rose. The masses of Shaido lurched forward, spears raised, astonished to see only a single line of men between them and their target. Eager for slaughter. They didn't get far before Taim's next command.

"Asha'man, kill!"

Asmodean had to revise his previous assessment; _ugly_ didn't begin to cover it. The first ranks of the Shaido exploded. They weren't burned to cinders or chopped to pieces with blades of Air. They burst like overripe fruit, blood and… _things_… spraying into the air. What was left was not recognisable as having ever been human, if one didn't know. Asmodean wanted to look away — it was not something anyone _wanted_ to watch — but the sight of living human beings being methodically turned into a bloody wreckage of flesh and bones was as mesmerising as it was horrifying and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

And Taim watched it all, still as a statue, impassive and unrelenting as an avatar of destruction. Or so one would have thought if one didn't see the way his nails dug into his left palm. He wasn't enjoying this, either. That was somehow reassuring. Perhaps there would be an end to the madness. The Shaido were beginning to retreat — if the mad scramble to get away could be called that — surely there was no need to continue…

"Asha'man, rolling ring of Earth and Fire!"

A series of explosions tossed bodies into the air. Dirt and limbs rained back down. Asmodean saw everything too clearly, couldn't stop identifying everything he saw — an arm no longer attached to a body, a head still attached to a torso too slim to be that of a man, a boot that might or might not still have a foot inside it — and it was too much. He forced his petrified body into motion, towards Taim, and he wasn't sure what he could say to make the man see that enough was enough already, but he had to try.

Before he got there, however, al'Thor's voice boomed over the sound of the explosions. "Stop it, Taim!"

Taim turned his head a fraction, waited for another round of explosions and then called, "Asha'man, rest!"

And everything… stopped, just like that. Asmodean's ears were ringing. He saw people around him begin to move and talk again, but he couldn't hear a thing. Maybe that was for the better. He wished he didn't have to see a thing, either, or feel or… or _smell_ a thing. He was so tired. He didn't try too hard to resist when his vision began to grow dim.

* * *

Taim turned his back to the devastation — and came face to face with Natael. The bard's face, where not covered in blood, was ashen and he swayed on his feet, looking as though he might keel over. Al'Thor, the girl, the ogier and the axe-wielding, yellow-eyed man were all behind Natael, looking scarcely better. Taim fought the urge to glare. Now did the bloody Dragon Reborn finally grasp what he had done? What he had ordered Taim to do in his name? His words of commendation rang hollow, forced, but the men raised a cheer and Taim let them have the moment. Anything that would put off the moment when the full horror of the day would begin to sink in. The world had to see the Asha'man as dangerous, indomitable, men of steel and fire.

He reached Natael just as the man began to fall. Taim caught him and eased him gently to the ground. "Really, bard, what exactly _are_ you doing here?" he muttered under his breath, not expecting an answer. A quick Delving told him the bard wasn't badly injured, although a not insignificant part of the blood staining the formerly blue coat was his own. Taim looked up and found the Dedicated he was looking for. "Marle!" he called.

Estevan Marle, a nondescript man approximately of an age with Taim himself, came running and saluted crisply. "Yes, M'Hael?"

"This man needs Healing," Taim said curtly. Marle chuckled as he knelt down to lay his hands on Natael, and Taim gave him a sharp look. "Is there something funny, Dedicated?"

"Oh, nothing, M'Hael," Marle replied distractedly as he wove the weaves of Spirit, Water and Air for Healing. He had a knack for Healing, although his interests lay… elsewhere. "We just picked him up on the battlefield. With Arawin's squad. Nearly Travelled straight on top of him."

"Good thing you didn't," Taim said wryly. He doubted al'Thor would have been impressed. Taim had yet to figure out what exactly the deal with Natael was — he had initially assumed that al'Thor was sleeping with the bard, but since the Farshaw woman had appeared, he was not so sure anymore. And speaking of al'Thor… From the corner of his eye, Taim could see several of the Aes Sedai approaching him. Taim's temper flared again; this whole mess was the fault of Aes Sedai! "Watch over Natael," he said and stood up, heading towards the group.

"You forget who we are," one of the women who seemed to be in charge of the Aes Sedai, the prettier one, was saying proudly. She appeared utterly oblivious to the reality of the situation, which was that after what had just taken place, no Aes Sedai, whatever their supposed allegiance, was in any position to be taking that tone with the Lord Dragon. "They may have mistreated you, but we—"

"I forget nothing, Aes Sedai," al'Thor said, cutting her off. "I said six could come, but I count nine. I said you would be on an equal footing with the Tower emissaries, and for bringing nine, you will be. They are on their knees, Aes Sedai. Kneel!"

Taim watched the women's faces; their expressions ranged from disbelieving to indignant to outright defiant. He gestured discreetly to Gedwyn and Rochaid, who gave a few curt commands in a low voice, and a dozen Asha'man surrounded the Aes Sedai, every man strong enough to shield one of the women without problems. He didn't care if it seemed excessive. He didn't care if the Aes Sedai were offended. He didn't know what had happened with the delegation in Caemlyn — curse al'Thor and his aversion for communication — but it had obviously sent al'Thor to Cairhien to begin with, placing him within the reach of the Tower emissaries. Aes Sedai were to blame, all of them, and the fact that these particular women had not been the ones to kidnap the Dragon Reborn counted for very little in Taim's books right now. Forcibly clamping down on his fury, he spoke.

"Kneel and swear to the Lord Dragon," he said softly, "or you will be knelt."


	2. Chapter 2

It was evening by the time the new camp was set up atop a hill nearly a mile to the south of Dumai's Wells. The wagons that had not been completely burned down were arranged in a circle, and in and around the circle men were moving about in groups, talking in loud voices, laughing, drunk on the relief at being alive. Not all shared the sentiment, at least in such excessive cheer, but overall the mood was nearly festive.

Asmodean sat by one of the wagons, leaning against the wagon wheel. He couldn't shake the feeling of _wrongness_ that had stayed with him ever since the battle. He felt out of focus, somehow. And filthy. He had been able to wash the blood off his skin, but his coat was ruined — and disposed of already — and he was beginning to wonder whether going shirtless would have been any worse than the bloodstained garment he was wearing. His saddlebags, along with a change of clothes, had been lost in the confusion and nobody had been considerate enough so far to offer him a spare shirt.

Absently he rubbed at his left arm. There was not even a scar; the Marle fellow was good, by the standards of this Age. Of course he was not a patch on the Restorers of old, but only one of those was alive in this Age — and if he never saw Semirhage again he would be so much the happier. Of course, if he kept following al'Thor, he was more than likely, almost guaranteed to come up against the rest of the Chosen sooner or later. The thought made him shudder despite the unseasonal heat. Rahvin had been bad enough. He didn't look forward to repeating that… How many more times? Aginor, Balthamel, Ishamael, Be'lal, Lanfear and Rahvin were dead. That left six. One could perhaps argue that Ishamael and Lanfear had been the most dangerous ones — although that was like saying that decapitation was slightly more harmful to one's health than a sword through the heart; you were dead either way.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Min Farshaw standing before him. She dropped a bundle of cloth in his lap and crouched down to his level. "Found that in one of the wagons," she said. "Thought you could use it. Unless you're wearing that bloody thing for a dramatic effect?"

Asmodean inspected the plain linen shirt; it would do. "An interesting idea, Miss Farshaw, but no. This is… much appreciated, I assure you. Thank you."

"I've told you before to call me Min," she said mock-sternly. "Silly woolhead of a bard." That elicited a smile from Asmodean; she knew who and what he was, and had no problems calling him a silly woolhead? A remarkable woman. She returned the smile, although the look in her big, brown eyes was concerned. "Are you alright?"

Asmodean had to laugh at that. "Oh, I've seen worse than what happened today," he replied, acutely aware that he didn't sound all that convincing.

"That's not what I asked, though," Min said gently.

"I suppose it isn't," Asmodean replied with a sigh. Then he chuckled wryly. "I hope you realise you're way too good for al'Thor."

"Oh?" she replied, laughing. "Do you think you could make a better offer? I _have_ always liked older men, but perhaps not quite that old." She shook her head in amusement and took his hand with both of hers. "But yes, I am aware," she continued blithely. "I just hope he never figures it out. He's enough of a woolhead to try and leave me behind if he gets it into his head that he doesn't _deserve_ me!"

"'Try' being the operative word, I'm certain." Asmodean had no doubts that Min would get her way if she really decided to do something — not that that was a bad thing, necessarily, not at all. At least with regards to al'Thor. She was good influence for him; anyone could see as much.

The woman grinned. "Indeed." Then she glanced over her shoulder to where al'Thor was talking to Taim and Dobraine some distance away. "I should go back," she said. "Those two are striking all the wrong kinds of sparks; wouldn't want anything to catch on fire…" For a second her expression darkened and Asmodean could guess what she was thinking of; there had been more than enough fire this day. Then she smiled again, and if it was a bit forced, the sentiment behind it was genuine enough. "You take care of yourself. Don't sit here alone all night, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Asmodean replied with equally forced cheer. Min gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, and then she was dashing off after al'Thor and the others. Asmodean watched her go, looking so young and carefree in those high-heeled boots of hers, dark curls bouncing as she ran. An illusion, of course. Nobody was _carefree_ this night, not even Min Farshaw with all her indomitable spirit. The sight of her made Asmodean feel old.

* * *

The evening turned into night. Asmodean wandered the camp, not entirely sure what had made him leave his less than comfortable but relatively peaceful corner, but unwilling to go back now that he had left it. Perhaps he was taking Min Farshaw's advice. Perhaps the stifling heat — which he could ignore all he liked but never quite stop being aware of — and the tensions running high in the camp made him restless. Or perhaps he was… looking for something. That was not a possibility that had crossed his mind until he happened upon the corner of the campsite where some of the Asha'man were gathered. Not all of them, not by a long shot, and Asmodean suspected that a fair number of them were keeping watch around the camp, both against outside threats and as a visible, silent reminder for those within to stick to their best behaviour.

He found what he hadn't realised he was looking for by one of the campfires. A handful of men, most of them young but not all, none of them wearing the Dragon pin that marked the fully-ranked Asha'man; hierarchy seemed strict among the men of the Black Tower. The Dedicated Brys Arawin was sitting on a crate, staring into the fire. Two even younger-looking boys were playing cards on the other side of the fire. A pretty man with long, black hair on two braids sat cross-legged on the ground, inspecting the blade of the sword across his knees. The one called Marle lay on a bedroll to one side; he was the only one of the lot not wearing his black coat and instead seemed to have bundled it up for a pillow. Asmodean raised his eyebrows at that; he wasn't sure Taim would approve. The M'Hael's approval or lack thereof didn't seem to disturb the blond man's sleep in the slightest.

Arawin looked up as Asmodean halted beside him. "Master Natael," the Dedicated said, nodding a greeting.

"Dedicated Arawin," Asmodean replied. "Mind if I join you?"

The pretty one with the braids gave him a sharp, openly suspicious look at the question, but Arawin shrugged. "Go ahead."

Asmodean sat on the ground between Arawin and Braids, as he had mentally named the other one. After a moment of silence — not even the two playing cards were speaking — Asmodean spoke. "I didn't have a chance to thank you for rescuing me, back there," he said. "I know it was a coincidence, or I assume so, but regardless, you saved my life, showing up when you did. And I thank you."

Arawin didn't respond, but instead one of the card players, a boy whose ears and nose were too big for his face, did. "We saved you and lost Daril," he began, then stopped abruptly, as if surprised or embarrassed that he had spoken up. "Not a terribly good trade if you ask—"

"Hopwil, enough." Arawin's words were quiet but weighed with authority that belied his age. "It wasn't his fault. Daril should have shielded himself before dashing into the middle of a flaming battle. Maybe the rest of you won't make the same mistake." There were quiet nods and muttered _yes, sirs_ at that, as well as an audible snort from Marle, who appeared to be awake after all.

Silence fell again, and if it wasn't exactly awkward, neither was it comfortable, precisely. Asmodean wished he had his harp; it was a remarkably efficient tool for making awkward silences more bearable. No sooner had he thought this, than three more young men in black coats — Soldiers, with neither the Dragon nor the Sword pin — approached the campfire. They saluted Arawin… And then addressed Asmodean instead.

"Bard… I mean, um, Master Natael," one of them stammered. "We was wondering… just wondering, mind… if you could maybe play something?" He proffered an object that Asmodean hadn't noticed him carrying. "We found this in one of the wagons. We know you usually play harp, but we thought you… probably know how to…" He trailed off again, but the hand offering the instrument didn't waver.

Asmodean glanced around; everyone around the campfire was watching him — well, everyone but Marle, who might as well have been asleep again. He looked back at the young man holding the flute, then his companions. They had all lost friends this day, and done terrible things, each of them killing more men than they could count.

He took the flute.

The newcomers settled down to listen while he inspected the instrument; he had indeed played the flute before — several kinds of flutes, in fact, although his preferred instruments had always been ones with strings, and the grand piano simply because of the grandiosity of the music it could produce. But he did know his way around a dozen more instruments. Although the flutes he was used to were rather different from this one. A few tentative notes told him everything he needed to know, however, and soon he was ready to begin.

He played no funeral dirges; if there was a sorrowful note to his songs, it was not that of death and despair. No, there had been enough of that. Instead he played songs of farewells, of seasons passing, of long journeys and of coming home to find it all changed. The black-clad men listened in solemn silence, and Asmodean was careful not to look too closely, but he thought silent tears glistened on more than one face. A hush fell over the closest campfires as well, and he had the sinking feeling that his audience had grown larger than he had imagined. Well and so; hardly the largest audience he had played for. Just… perhaps… one of the most sincere.

He wasn't sure how long he had played, when suddenly the silence around him gained an alarmed quality. After a frozen moment the Soldiers and Dedicated were scrambling to their feet and saluting — and Asmodean knew without looking who was standing behind him. Because the song was at an end anyway, he stopped playing.

"At ease," Mazrim Taim said. Slowly, the men settled again, but the mood had been broken; everyone except Marle — who hadn't moved during the whole episode — looked awkward, as if wondering whether they should be somewhere else. "Master Natael," Taim said quietly. "A word with you. In private."

"Very well," Asmodean replied. He handed the flute back to the Soldier who had brought it, and stood up.

Taim gave him an appraising look. "You look different without all the lace," he noted.

"Yes, I'm sure you look different out of that uniform, as well," Asmodean replied. A chorus of astonished gasps — and a snort from Marle — followed the statement; obviously not many people talked back to the M'Hael in this manner. Perhaps Asmodean shouldn't have, either, where the others could hear. _Oh well._ A heartbeat later — as the startled look on Taim's face finally registered — it occurred to him that the comment could be taken in some rather different ways which he hadn't intended. "…That aside. You wanted to talk. Shall we, then?"

"Absolutely. One moment, though." Taim turned his attention back to the others. "Arawin, Marle," he addressed the two sharply. Arawin all but jumped to his feet again and made a precise salute, and even Marle got up with some alacrity now that he was being directly addressed by the M'Hael. He picked his way through the gathered crowd to stand beside Arawin and his salute was every bit as proper even if he was missing his coat. Taim gave him a look that Asmodean could only describe as 'extremely unimpressed', but proceeded to fish two small objects from his pocket. "You've both earned this," he said as he deftly attached the golden Dragon pin on Arawin's collar. "Asha'man Arawin." With Marle, he simply handed the pin over with a frosty glare. "Asha'man Marle. I trust I won't see you in casual dress again."

"No, M'Hael," Marle muttered, nonetheless failing to sound actually abashed. "Thank you, M'Hael."

Taim nodded curtly. "Carry on." Then he turned to leave, and Asmodean hurried after him.

They made their way across the camp in silence until Taim suddenly spoke. "Do you have children?"

Asmodean nearly tripped over his own feet. "Children?" he repeated, hearing the startled disbelief in his own voice. "Not that I'm aware of… Light, no." He shook his head slowly. "How come?"

Taim shot him an amused glance. "That scene back there," he said. "It looked like you're used to that kind of thing."

Asmodean gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Oh, no, not at all," he replied. "The very opposite of 'used to', I assure you. But one learns to improvise when one lives long enough…" No sooner were the words out than he realised he might have said too much. To cover for his mistake he grasped at the first topic that came to mind. "What about you? Do you have children?" Again, he realised a heartbeat too late that this might not have been the best possible topic even for the purposes of distraction. What a question to ask a male channeller in this day and Age! "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Stupid question. It's been a long day."

Taim made a dismissive gesture. "It's quite alright," he said wryly. "And the answer is no." He stopped walking, and Asmodean realised they had come to the other edge of the camp. Taim gazed out into the darkness, somewhere beyond the ring of wagons, frowning.

"So…" Asmodean said, looking around. "I presume we're 'here', whatever it is you wanted to talk to me about…"

"Al'Thor," Taim said curtly. "He's out there. Alone. He won't talk to anybody. I don't think he even heard me when I tried to talk to him." He sounded almost angry, but Asmodean could see the concern at the root of the anger. And he couldn't say that Taim was wrong to be concerned; half the world was holding its breath, waiting for the Dragon Reborn to go mad, and what Taim was describing…

"I'm sure he's not…" Asmodean began, but he was cut off.

"Insane?" Taim snapped. "How do you know? I've seen men lose their minds after mere weeks of channelling, at the Black Tower. My ten years has got to be a cosmic joke by the Wheel itself. None of the prophecies say that the Dragon will be sane by the time of the Last Battle…" He trailed off, frowning. "…Or do they?"

Asmodean shook his head mutely; as far as he was aware — and he had spent a substantial amount of time since waking up familiarising himself with the different prophecies of this Age — the matter was not addressed in any of them.

Taim nodded grimly. "I didn't think so. The question is, what do we do if he does lose his mind?"

Asmodean stared. "What do we…" he repeated faintly. Taim was watching him intently, black eyes shadowed. He appeared to be completely serious. Asmodean wanted to shake him. "There is nothing we can do! Don't you understand? If he's lost his mind, if he loses his mind, there's nothing anyone can do! It's over!" He realised he had raised his voice and looked around, but nobody seemed to be listening. He tried to clamp down on the feelings of frustration and helplessness and fear, but it wasn't easy.

Taim watched him with an unreadable expression, and when he spoke again, his voice held nothing but resolution. "There is _always_ something we can do," he said, advancing on Asmodean. "Do you hear me, bard? There has to be. I won't accept anything else!"

Asmodean took an involuntary step back — somehow Taim seemed to loom over him even though the Saldaean was only marginally taller. "Do you think the Wheel cares what you will or won't accept?" he asked, hearing the bleakness in his own voice.

"The Wheel doesn't care," Taim replied matter-of-factly. "But, Master Natael… Do you think I would have lived this long if _I_ cared about whether anyone cares, including the Wheel itself?" He flashed that familiar almost-smile and continued without giving Asmodean a chance to speak. "Of course I hope it doesn't come to that… I _pray_ it doesn't, and let me tell you, bard, I'm not the praying type. But if it does, _if it does_, I'm not going to just sit down and wait for the world to end. And neither will the Black Tower, or anyone else if I have any say in the matter, and if the Black Tower keeps growing at the rate it has so far, I damn well will have a lot to say. I may not be the Dragon, but—" He cut off abruptly, as if taken aback by the level of passion he was displaying.

Asmodean nodded slowly. Absurd as it was, he could almost imagine Taim uniting the nations if something did happen to al'Thor. Not that it would matter in that event; Taim couldn't exactly fight the Great Lord in al'Thor's stead. But he had no doubt the man would try. Asmodean had to respect the sentiment, even as a part of him marvelled at the sheer arrogance of it.

"Anyway," Taim went on, more calmly, "I was hoping you could talk to him. Maybe you could get through to him. Get him to come back to the camp. Anything could be out there, and him in that state…"

There was only one possible answer. "I'll talk to him," Asmodean said.

* * *

That talk turned out about as fruitful as Asmodean had expected, perhaps even less so. Al'Thor had barely acknowledged his presence, let alone responding when he had tried to talk to him. The scene, the young Dragon Reborn sitting alone in the dark, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself, was not in any way reassuring and Asmodean had been all too glad to get away when Perrin Aybara had showed up and promised to keep an eye on al'Thor. This was not anything Asmodean was equipped to deal with.

As he was walking back to the camp, he suddenly felt _saidin_ being channelled — and then he was shielded and caught in flows of Air. "No use screaming," an unfamiliar voice said behind him. "Nobody five yards away is going to hear you."

"Who is this?" Asmodean asked, trying to sound calm despite his wildly racing heart. He was _shielded_; whoever it was, the person knew he could channel. Trying to contain his fear, he went on, "What do you want from me?"

"You may call me Osan'gar," the voice replied.

Asmodean let out a nervous laugh. "That… that tells me absolutely nothing!" He could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. He tried to turn his head, to look at his assailant, but the bonds of Air wouldn't allow the movement.

"It's not meant to," Osan'gar said, sounding annoyed. "And what I want is simple enough: your co-operation."

Asmodean tried to shrug. "I don't seem to have a lot of choice, do I?"

The other man chuckled. "Less than you think… Asmodean."

Hearing his name spoken aloud was like a punch in the gut. The world lurched dizzily under his feet. "I h-have no idea what you're talking—" he stammered, but he was cut off by a contemptuous snort.

"Spare me the bard's tales. I've known who you were since the first time I saw you at the fa—" Osan'gar cut off mid-word and, despite his mind reeling from panic, Asmodean had the feeling that the man had revealed something significant. Osan'gar went on, "Do you think the Chosen have forgotten about you? Do you think the Great Lord ever will? You can't evade their punishment, not even death will spare you… Unless you do exactly as I say."

"Really?" Asmodean gasped; he couldn't quite make the word sound as sarcastic as he wanted to.

"Nothing too difficult even for you," Osan'gar said, contempt clear in his voice. "Just make sure to stay as close to al'Thor as you have. You will be contacted with further instructions. And if you even think of betraying the Great Lord again, know this: the Friends of the Dark are everywhere and even the Dragon cannot protect you all the time. And when you die… the Great Lord will have you for all of eternity."

Then he was released. Asmodean stumbled but miraculously managed to regain his balance. He heard footsteps receding but it was too dark to see anything more than a silhouette of a man walking in the opposite direction. Apparently this Osan'gar wasn't too concerned over being recognised. Not that Asmodean had any desire to run after him. Not that he was all too certain he could run if he tried; he was fighting just to stay standing, to breathe evenly, to not fall apart in hysterics. He staggered back to the camp, hoping that nobody would notice him and he could just find a quiet corner to curl up and hide in, preferably forever. Or at least until he could stop shaking and hyperventilating.

No such luck, alas.

"Natael? Did you not find—? Light, man, what _happened_?"

Asmodean jumped at the sound of Taim's voice — too close, too loud, too curious. "Nothing," he gasped, acutely aware of how absurd it must sound. "Nothing, nothing… nothing!"

Taim swore under his breath, clearly torn between attempting to get more information out of Asmodean and heading out to check on al'Thor. "He's not dead, is he?" he asked sharply.

Realising finally how the scene must look to Taim, Asmodean shook his head frantically. "No, no, no," he managed, still shaking his head. "No, he's fine, he's fine—" _Well, at least compared to being dead._ He stifled a hysterical giggle with some effort; if he started laughing he wasn't sure he was ever going to stop. _No, focus._ He gulped a breath and wrapped his arms about himself; he thought he must be shaking visibly and his knees kept wanting to fold. "Aybara is with him."

That seemed to reassure Taim somewhat — which, of course, only meant that now he could focus his full attention on Asmodean's state. "Then what _happened_ to you?" he asked, but seemed to realise that he wasn't going to get a coherent answer right now. "Come, I think you should sit down before you fall over…" He put a supporting arm around Asmodean's shoulders and tried to nudge him on, but Asmodean collapsed against him, sobbing silently. Cursing under his breath, Taim caught him awkwardly. "Oh for Light's sake…"

Keenly aware that the situation had degenerated way beyond repair — he wasn't going to walk away from this with his dignity intact — Asmodean let Taim help him sit down on the ground. For what seemed like forever there was nothing he could do but let the panic run its course. After a while he realised that he was still being held. A wry thought surfaced; apparently Taim hadn't fled the scene. It took a while longer until he was able to breathe normally again. Another while until he was able to detach himself from Taim. Taim sat back on his heels, watching him warily. Asmodean drew a shuddering breath and wrapped his arms around his knees. Was he going to have to be the one to break the silence? Probably. Taim was displaying deeply uncharacteristic patience — although Asmodean was beginning to suspect he didn't know the man as well as he might think he did.

"Terribly sorry about that," Asmodean said eventually. His voice was hoarse and not entirely steady, and the casual tone must sound rather comical all things considered, but he doubted he could make the situation any worse if he tried so there was that.

Taim shrugged. "Don't worry about it," he replied, affecting nonchalance, as if holding hysterical musicians in his arms was a common occurrence to him. "So… Do you think you could tell me what exactly happened?" he asked cautiously.

"It doesn't matter," Asmodean replied with weary resignation. Either he managed to sound more convincing than he felt or Taim just decided to let the matter lie, because Taim simply nodded.

"I can't sit here much longer," Taim said then, but surprisingly there was no impatience in his voice; he was merely stating a fact. "I have people to supervise. Is there someone you'd like me to get? Min Farshaw, maybe?"

Asmodean shook his head. "No, I'm fine, no need to disturb her sleep. Assuming she is sleeping." He hesitated. He didn't want to be left alone, but he couldn't keep Taim from his duties. "Would you mind if I walked with you? I really do hate to inconvenience you any more than I already have, but…"

Taim arched a sceptical eyebrow at the 'fine' part, but shrugged. "By all means." He stood up in a graceful, fluid motion. Asmodean followed, not quite as gracefully. They started off across the camp at a casual pace. "I appreciate what you did back there," Taim said after a while. "With the soldiers and Dedicated. It made a difference, I can tell."

Asmodean shrugged awkwardly. "I played music. I am a bard. That's what I do." He wasn't sure how he felt about _making a difference_, and he didn't feel up to exploring said feelings right now.

"Is that so?" Taim murmured, glancing sideways at him. "I wonder…"

"Is what so?" Asmodean asked, trying to sound suitably casual, but he could hear the nervous edge creeping into his tone. His nerves were still raw after the encounter with Osan'gar, whoever that was. He didn't need Taim prying into his identity on top of it.

"You're no simple bard or I'm the Amyrlin Seat," Taim said matter-of-factly.

Asmodean tilted his head and made a show of looking at him as though comparing him to the Amyrlin Seat — never mind that he had never met the woman — then shook his head. "No, the nose is all wrong," he said. "But who knows? The stole might suit you?"

Taim gave him a look that could only be described as 'extremely unimpressed'. "Keep your secrets, Natael," he said. "If that's even your name." He turned his attention briefly to the pair of Asha'man who saluted as they walked by. "I suppose, whatever you are, you're not out to harm al'Thor," he continued in a lowered voice. "That's good enough for me. For now."

And that, in turn, had to be good enough for Asmodean. How exactly had it ever been a good idea to bait Taim like that? But he couldn't help himself, not when the man was strutting around, making grand statements like that, overall taking himself entirely too seriously. But, a small voice at the back of his mind reminded him, did Taim not have reason to take himself seriously? The display at the Wells had certainly been serious enough. He shuddered at the memory — and ignored the wary look Taim gave him. The world had best start taking Mazrim Taim and the Black Tower seriously…

They walked around the entire camp, stopping to exchange a few words with several of the Asha'man on guard. Everything seemed mostly calm and under control; the captive Aes Sedai were too intimidated by their Asha'man guards to display much attitude, and their Warders might glare at anything that moved but they wouldn't do anything that might bring trouble to their Aes Sedai. The captive Shaido were the meekest of them all, in a disconcerting parody of the Da'Shain Aiel Asmodean remembered so well.

Taim caught him frowning at the Shaido and mistook it for worry. "They're quite harmless, or so Rhuarc claims," he said. "Something about their honour code. They become practically servants if they get captured in battle."

Asmodean made a noncommittal sound; he could have pointed out everything Taim had got wrong in those three sentences, but he didn't really want to talk about the Aiel. It felt entirely too much like nostalgia.

Finally they halted by one of the campfires in the Asha'man corner of the camp. The men sitting around the fire all wore the Dragon pin, but they stood and saluted their M'Hael with as great alacrity as the soldiers and Dedicated. One of them, a Domani judging by his colouring, vacated the crate he had been sitting on and moved to sit on the ground. Taim nodded at him and took the seat; Asmodean sat on the ground beside the crate. Some of the Asha'man looked at him with poorly disguised curiosity.

"Have you adopted al'Thor's pet bard, M'Hael?" one of them, a young man with black hair and a thin moustache, asked, earning a warning glare from the fellow next to him, a hard-faced man with reddish-blond hair and grey eyes.

Taim merely arched an eyebrow and said, sounding distinctly amused, "If I have, Rochaid, that's none of your business."

"Pity he doesn't have his harp," the Domani said.

Asmodean sighed and prepared to make some suitably courteous response, but Taim spoke before he could think of one. "He's not here to entertain you, Altair."

"Why _is_ he here, then?" the redhead asked.

"I adopted him," Taim replied curtly, in a tone that severely discouraged any further questions or comments on the subject. It didn't quite stop the curious looks, which were now aimed at the both of them, if not quite so openly at the M'Hael. Especially the redhead and the one called Rochaid seemed to be reaching all the wrong conclusions if the knowing look they shared was any indication. Asmodean shrugged mentally; it was nothing new to him. Half the people who knew Jasin Natael thought he was sleeping with al'Thor. As far as misconceptions went, it was relatively harmless. Much more so than the truth. He did wonder if Taim was aware of the looks — almost certainly — and what they were likely to signify — possibly not.

* * *

The rest of the night was blessedly uneventful. Most of the Asha'man slept at one point or another — they had done some intense channelling during the battle, after all. Asmodean must have dozed off himself; he woke up some time later to find himself slumped against Taim, a corner of the crate digging painfully into his side, his head propped against the M'Hael's arm. Taim was sitting so still — and must have been for quite a while for Asmodean to manage fall asleep like that — that for a moment Asmodean thought he was asleep, too. Then his brain caught up and he realised that he couldn't possibly be asleep or he'd have fallen off the crate.

Asmodean sat up straight, wincing as the muscles in his neck and shoulders protested against the awkward position in which he'd slept. He looked around but most of the Asha'man around the fire, which was now little more than smoldering coals, were also sleeping. The only one awake besides Asmodean and Taim was the redhead, and he was reading a book by the light of a small sphere of _saidin_. Asmodean looked up at Taim, who was staring into the fire; he looked tired but perfectly alert.

"Why did you let me fall asleep like that?" Asmodean muttered.

Taim glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to the dying fire. "Is there I reason I shouldn't have?" he asked.

"Well, if it's perfectly acceptable to be using the M'Hael as a pillow…"

"I've endured worse indignities in my life, I assure you." Taim's voice was wry, very wry. "Gedwyn," he went on, addressing the redhead without looking at him. "Wake up Rochaid and go check on Torval and Dashiva."

The redhead, Gedwyn, jumped almost guiltily, but set his book down and turned to Rochaid sleeping next to him. He shook the younger man by the shoulder. "Get up," he growled. "We've work to do."

"Why me?" came the sleepy protest. Asmodean winced; the man sounded younger than Arawin all of a sudden.

"Because the Light has no mercy on lazy sons of goats like you," Gedwyn replied crisply. "Now. Up." The other man obeyed, finally seeming to realise that they weren't alone. The pair saluted and headed off into the night. Asmodean thought he saw Rochaid elbow Gedwyn in the ribs before they vanished from sight.

"They're children." He didn't mean to speak out, and didn't realise he had until he heard his own voice, heavy with disbelief.

"I don't ask their ages," Taim replied.

_And how old are you?_ But Asmodean didn't ask out loud. Taim said he had been channelling for approximately ten years. As a sparker, that likely made him younger than thirty. The slowing made such things difficult to gauge — men didn't start slowing until mid twenties, no matter how young they started channelling, but Taim couldn't be many years past that point. He appeared older, though. Asmodean supposed that being a male channeller in this Age had that effect. _Among other effects._ He grimaced, having inadvertently reminded himself of the taint and the fact that he was now equally susceptible to its effects than any poor fool born with the spark.

"Why are you here, bard?" Taim asked after a while.

"Isn't it a bit too late for philosophical questions like that?" Asmodean countered. "Why are any of us here? Why did the Wheel weave us along the precise paths that led us all to be here, on this hilltop, on this night?" He shrugged. "I don't know. That's something Ish—" He cut off abruptly; naming Ishamael in casual conversation like that might not be the cleverest thing to do. He felt Taim's gaze on him, searching, considering, and cursed himself for a fool. In the end Taim ignored the slip, however; Asmodean didn't delude himself into thinking it had gone unnoticed, but he appreciated not having to come up with an explanation right now.

The conversation died there, but the silence that followed was not an uncomfortable one. At least any more so than any ordinary silence. Asmodean thought of al'Thor, hoping Aybara had indeed stayed with him. He was sure he had. He stubbornly tried to avoid thinking of Osan'gar; he couldn't afford a repeat of the earlier meltdown, not with Taim already as suspicious as he was. He had never thought the Great Lord would forget about him or his betrayal, unwilling as it had been. He had always known he was a dead man ever since Lanfear had placed that shield on him and left him at al'Thor's mercy. But he had not thought that there were people actively keeping an eye on him, or that ordinary Friends of the Dark had been informed of his… status. It wasn't like the Chosen to air their dirty laundry before lesser beings, such as the people of this Age. Then again, with Ishamael gone, there hadn't been much in the way of leadership among the Chosen — that is, even as much as there had used to be.

He shuddered and closed his eyes, hugging his knees. After a moment there was a rustle of cloth, and then something was draped over his shoulders. Startled, he opened his eyes to look and recognised the heavy, stiff fabric of the Asha'man coat. He stole a sideways glance at Taim, who was staring at the fire as if he had never moved… except that he was no longer wearing a coat. Asmodean wasn't sure what to make of the gesture, but as Taim didn't seem to be expecting thanks, he offered none and instead inspected one of the embroidered sleeves.

Absurdly enough, huddled inside Taim's coat he felt almost safe.


End file.
